


Champion in Chains

by NotYetWritten



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age II
Genre: Abuse, Angst, Betrayal, Brainwashing, F/M, Fuck Or Die, Gang Rape, Heavy Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Imprisonment, Kidnapping, Mind Games, Rescue, Torture, Trauma, Whipping
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-11-13
Updated: 2017-03-26
Packaged: 2018-08-30 17:44:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 9
Words: 10,300
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8542762
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NotYetWritten/pseuds/NotYetWritten
Summary: (Written for a Kink Meme request)Varric and Hawke are kidnapped by the Coterie. They are held captive in an isolated basement, and Varric is forced to watch Hawke's torture and rape. He offers whatever comfort he can when they're alone, only for their situation to worsen each time the captors come back. Eventually  they'll escape, but unfortunately they go through hell first.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [NotYetWritten](https://archiveofourown.org/users/NotYetWritten/gifts).



Hawke grinned and used her mage staff to poke at the sack of gold coins slung over Varric's shoulder.

 

"We did nice work," she said.

 

Varric nodded. "Damn right. All we need is the strongest ale in Kirkwall, and we can call it a good day."

 

"A good day is money and ale?" Hawke moved closer to Varric and playfully tapped her fingers against his shoulder. "That's it? So what kind of day would it be if I snuck under the table and gave you a little 'surprise' at the Hanged Man?"

 

Varric's face flushed, and Hawke smirked. She had never had intimate relations with Varric, or discussed the subject in any overt way, but she'd enjoyed teasing him for weeks now. And judging by the way he responded to her jokes, he enjoyed it too. She wondered what it might be like together--bantering under the sheets as their witty minds entwined along with their bodies. But despite their silent affection for each other, Hawke and Varric shared a deep bond that meant more than any playful crush. The kind of bond where they would be willing to die for each other--and they almost had, many times.

 

"You making promises, Hawke?" Varric's voice carried a suave, genuine interest underneath the laughter. "Let's get to the Hanged Man then."

 

"Let's take the shortcut." Hawke picked up her pace, relieved to be on their way out of Darktown. She and Varric managed Darktown's streets just fine, but rough crowds dealt in the shadows, and they could take down the strongest of fighters--especially traveled in small groups. Hawke regretted venturing out on this quest with only herself and Varric. But soon, she would be at the Hanged Man with the rest of her friends, enjoying the light and warmth and getting tipsy off some good booze with one of her many newly-earned gold sovereigns. 

 

A sharp pain jutted into her back.

 

Hawke stopped walking, suddenly aware of how silent her companion had grown. "Varric?"

 

The rough voice that answered was not her friend. "Turn around. Drop the staff."

 

Hawke turned around, gripping her staff and aiming to shoot a fireball. Her new foe pointed a long blade straight into her stomach, poking into her flesh just lightly enough to not draw blood. More captors moved in behind her and Varric, forming a circle. There were eight of them that Hawke could count, with the vague shapes of more lurking in the shadows.

 

Coterie. She recognized them by the coded clothing and symbols they wore. A flood of curses rushed to her mind, and she opened her mouth to say them, but the Coterie leader spoke first.

 

"I said drop the fucking staff." The voice was harsher now--deadly harsh. "You have three seconds to drop it, and for your imbecile dwarven friend to drop that crossbow. Or my knife goes through your insides." He pressed the knife deeper, making a light cut.

 

She surveyed the crowd. They were outnumbered, but none of them were mages, and a few good bolts from her staff should take them all down. After that, if he cut her, she could heal herself.

 

She forced herself to laugh at his face. "Three seconds is longer than you last in bed, you pathetic worm." She raised her staff, and formed a tip of a fireball--but then the spell ended.

 

The stench of magebane overwhelmed her mouth and nose, and a strangled noise escaped her mouth as her foe's meaty arm choked around her neck. She tried to scream to Varric, but she couldn't talk. She couldn't even breathe.

 

Hawke felt numb. Her hands had suddenly gone cold, and she could hear her own heartbeat. A dull thud hit the ground at her feet, and she didn't recognize it as her staff until she realized her hands were empty. Next to her, Varric stood motionless as another enemy moved in to take Bianca.

 

"Fuck you," muttered Varric. "Take what coin you need, but don't take our weapons away."

 

Their enemies laughed. Then Varric slumped to the ground, and when Hawke looked up she saw the heavy metal pipe in an attacker's hand.

 

"I told y'all these things are good for knocking people out cold," he said to his companions. "You two drag the dwarf. As for this mage bitch who stole our shipment?" He strode up to Hawke, breathing putrid breath into her face until her mouth went dry with revulsion and fear. "The mage bitch is mine."

 

A painful thud cracked down on her skull, making her see a flood of colors that she didn't even known existed. Then she was falling, and then she was in blackness.

 

##

 

When Hawke awoke, she was in a dank cellar deep beneath the earth. Water dripped from the ceiling from somewhere far away, and the smells of mold and rot filled the air. It was mostly dark, except for a few torches flickering along one wall. 

 

Torches. Someone must have lit them, and it wasn't her or Varric, so her captors must still be around here somewhere.  
Varric--where the hell was he, anyway?

 

She realized her throat was parched, and her lips were cracked from lack of water. She must have been down here for at least hours, or perhaps a full day.

 

"Varric?" Her voice was hoarse and quiet. "Where are you?"

 

"I'm over here." His voice was measured, but lower than usual. "Tied up, can't move. Not hurt though."

 

"I'm not hurt either. Not yet, at least." Hawke tried to stand, but tripped over a heavy chain. "Shit." She looked down and saw that both of her ankles were shackled, and the chain was fastened deep into the wall. She could move a few feet in either direction, but that was it. Her staff and Bianca nowhere to be seen.

 

##

 

Varric forced himself to sit up. The simple effort caused agony to slice through his bones, but he could not let himself show the pain or weakness. Not in front of Hawke. His companion and best friend lay across the room, curled up in her chains in what looked like a painful position. They had been there for hours now, and she had struggled for a long time but eventually given up, apparently to the sole escape of sleep. Varric figured that was probably for the best.

 

The Coterie. Varric had figured out the identity of their captors early on, but he wasn't familiar with this particular venue of their locale. He had scanned every inch of the room for any hint or clue that would give him more information, but there was none. Their captors had drugged them unconscious prior to hauling them down here. And where the hell was Bianca? And Hawke's staff? There was no trace of either, anywhere, and even with his skills Varric had been unable to escape from the chains' locks. 

 

Was it possible that, for the very first time, he and Hawke had encountered foes who were smarter than themselves? Varric shook his head, forcefully, even though no one was there to see it. Of course that wasn't possible, it couldn't be. But the cold horror crept up his spine and shoulders anyway.

 

He shuddered, and realized how dry his skin and mouth were. He and Hawke hadn't had water since hours before their capture. He had no way to tell the time in this Maker-blasted hellhole, but it could have been more than a full day and night since their last drink. He glanced at Hawke. She was sleeping, or at least pretending to, but certainly not fitfully. Every few moments, her body twitched and shook with what he interpreted as severe discomfort. Either that, or sheer terror.

 

Varric's chest tightened, and he realized that he was afraid for Hawke. He shook his head again. He must be strong for her--especially if he awoke, but also right now because Varric never, ever became unraveled. He hadn't lost control of himself or his emotions--such silly and strange things those were--since he was a tiny lad, before he could even remember. So why was he thinking of this now? It didn't matter. No matter what the Coterie did to Varric, he wouldn't break. And as for what they might do to Hawke--

 

No. He would not entertain those thoughts.

 

He examined the chains once more, trying to swim through the fog in his mind enough to see if he could find a way to escape. But before he could, the door opened. It was a trapdoor up a set of crude wooden steps, and when it opened a tiny bit of light shone in. Just enough light for Varric to see how pale and pained Hawke's face was in her sleep.

 

The Coterie man descended the steps, grinning like a rabid wild dog who'd caught fresh prey.

 

Varric made sure to stay composed as the Coterie foe headed down the steps. Varric had tough skin, both mentally and physically--there wasn't much an enemy could do to hurt him, except maybe part him of Bianca, but that was out of his hands now anyway. Likely, the captor wanted some sum or favor that they doubted the rogue would agree to, and kidnapped them to extort a blackmail plan.

 

His heart lurched. The man didn't stop for Varric as expected, but he kept walking. Towards Hawke.


	2. Chapter 2

Panicked sweat broke out across Varric's hands and down his neck. Hawke was asleep, perhaps even unconscious. What the hell was the captor planning to do with her?

 

The man yanked Hawke, still chained, roughly into a sitting position. She awoke. Her limbs were tensed and stiff, the way they always were when she pretended she wasn't afraid, but her eyes were wide with terror.

 

Varric struggled against his own chains. He wanted to break free of them, to fly across the room and smash the captor's head into the wall for daring to lay even one greasy finger on the Champion of Kirkwall. But he only moved a few inches before the chains bit into his flesh. They rattled, mocking him, reminding him he couldn't do jack shit. That he couldn't even protect the woman he--

 

No. Varric drew in a quick, hissing breath as the captor shook Hawke in an intimidating gesture. The Coterie man undid Hawke from her chains with one hand, and twisted both her arms behind her back with the other. Varric recognized the position. The captor could easily break both of Hawke's arms, and it was a position of threatening blackmail.

 

The captor dragged the bound mage over to Varric and slammed her into the ground at Varric's feet. She made a choked, strangled noise that was a combination of pain, fear, the struggle of trying not to show those emotions, and humiliation that she had. Varric's heart felt tight and heavy.

 

The man handed Varric a small dagger, sharp on its edge but without a tip. It would be useless for escaping the chains, or even in a fight between two unrestrained people, but could do damage to the flesh of a bound person. Varric felt numb, and tried to pretend this was just a game gone too far, a game he could weasel his way out of. But Hawke's shivering trembles reminded him that it was not a game.

 

"Cut her fucking clothes off," snarled the captor. "We'll have fun with this bitch--we like playing with the fools who take what's ours."

 

Anger surged through Varric's veins. Did this fucking imbecile think that Varric was just some heartless mercenary, who would turn on Hawke at demand?

 

He spit at the man's face. "Go fuck yourself in hell."

 

The coterie man chuckled. "Going to be difficult, then? Fine." He traced the blade up Hawke's neck, pressing down just enough to leave tiny pricks of blood. Hawke's gaze raced from one side of the room to the other as the blade moved up her neck, and jaw, and up to her eye. She clenched her eyes shut, and the captor increased his pressure slightly across her eyelid. He pushed it down, as though to gouge her eye out--and then suddenly stopped.

 

"One last chance," he snapped. "Cut her fucking clothes off or else I will--and I'll gouge her eyes out and slide off her tongue and do lots more to her than that. We will have our fun, one way or the other."

 

Varric took the knife, hating himself for the way his thick fingers shook. He looked around, searching a final time to see if he had any chance, even the smallest, of turning his knife against the captor. But there was none--not unless he was willing to risk Hawke being tortured to death.

 

The mage leaned slightly into Varric's touch as he slowly cut through her tunic. He kept the slices straight and tidy, so that it wouldn't be too hard for her to hold her clothing together when they got the chance to make their escape. Her movement towards him was subtle, but Varric knew all too well what she meant. She was sending him a gesture of solidarity--of understanding that they were in this together, that she did not blame him for whatever acts of misery this Coterie bastard was about to subject them to. In turn, Varric's heart ached as though his chest was being gouged into.

 

He kept his eyes averted to the floor as he finished slicing away the rest of the fabric. Varric had seen Hawke undressed a few times--glimpses of her swimming or bathing in the river on their quests, while he had predictably stared through the trees. But those times were nothing like this one. Hawke more or less knew that Varric had watched her, and she was never truly bothered by it. She had japed and teased about it, and those moments were happy ones for them both. In those moments, she had looked happy and radiant and strong, with playful motions and sleek elegance.

 

But now, she wasn't happy or playful or radiant. Her trembling had grown worse, and her nakedness was raw and unnatural. Under the many flickering torch lights, streaked with the sweat of fear, she looked like a skinned animal. Like a bird whose wings had been ripped out, who was struggling to remain alive.

 

"Even prettier up close, Champion." Varric didn't know if those words were the right ones, and saying them made him feel like one of the obnoxious drunks in the Hanged Man who harassed every person to walk by. But he knew that Hawke would understand the meaning behind his words. Hawke would understand that Varric was here to support her as her best friend, as his usual japing self, even in these maker-forsaken circumstances. That he would never contribute to her degradation by patronizing her with the condescending pity she hated so much.

 

"Fuck you, dwarf." Her voice was small, and her gaze stayed rooted to the dirty floor, but Varric knew she was returning his sentiment and that she understood. She only called him "dwarf" when she had to admit her loss, like when he had beaten her at Wicked Grace.

 

The Coterie man was having none of their inside jokes or secret words that carried the strength of gold. "Shut the fuck up," he snarled. 

 

Varric braced himself, ready for the captor to start undoing his belt buckles. But numb, cold horror washed over him as something even worse happened.

 

The Coterie man pulled a cloth packet out of his pocket. The satchel was stained with blood, and as he began to untie it, Varric's stomach churned with dread. The pack contained knives--lots of them. Large and flat knives; thin and pointed knives; knives with serrated edges. The gore of past victims stained the blades. Varric lunged forward, blind with rage. Over the Maker's dead body would this miserable, lowlife scum dare to harm a single hair on the Champion's body. But, to Varric's panic and dismay, he was bound again. How the hell had that happened?

 

When Varric looked up again, their captor had pulled out more instruments. Whips. Long, sharp whips embedded with bits of glass and metal that would shred Hawke's skin to the bone.

 

"I like to get my meat nice and bloody before I devour it," said the Coterie captor. "And my friends like to watch."

 

The captor moved aside, and Varric got a glimpse of many, many shadows behind them. The shadows of people. Hulking, staring, unfriendly people, grinning with sadistic glee.

 

"We're all going to take turns," said the captor, still in the middle of his game. "And then, we're going to take turns pounding your little mage whore into a bloody, slimy mess on the floor."

 

"Don't hurt her." Varric's voice was broken and gravelly. "You hurt her and you lose your leverage."

 

Malevolent snickers broke out across the dim, hellish room. 

 

Hawke tried not to show any weakness as the first knife dug under her skin. Varric watched her pale face strain with the effort to fight off a scream. The long, sharp, flat blade pierced into the flesh on her upper back--and scraped down, at least two inches. Thick blood dripped down her spine, from the patch of shredded flesh, like a fountain spewing crimson. Hawke hissed with rage and pain, and the sound made Varric white-hot with rage. He swore to himself, to Bianca and to the Maker himself that the second he got out of here, he would give every one of their assailants a death that would make storytellers cringe for ages to come.

 

The Coterie man smirked and picked up a new blade. This one was small, thin and no taller than his pointer finger. The man let it glimmer in the air, under the flickering torch lights that made the metal shine. And then he grabbed Hawke's wrist and jammed the blade under her fingernail.

 

Hawke's sharp, strangled cry filled the room. She thrashed uselessly, fighting for her life despite her bonds. 

 

"Fuck you pieces of shit!" she yelled. "You're pathetic! Your weapons are pathetic. In a fight on the streets I could take you all down at once."

 

"Oh, but you had that chance already, pretty." Another Coterie man stepped out of the shadows. This one was weaker than the leader, and he leered with watery eyes and brown-stained rotten teeth. "One dose of magebane was enough to knock you right out. And if our weapons are 'pathetic,' then let's bring out the real ones."

 

"Aye." The leader grinned, and pulled the bullwhip from his pack. 

 

The sight of the whip made Varric feel sick. Its frayed edges were studded with metal and glass, and it carried an acrid sent as though it had been dipped in poisons. Reddish-brown blood from past victims stained the entirety of the whip, and in some places, bits of torn-off flesh hung from its edges.

 

He brought the whip down on Hawke's back, right over the fresh flay wounds. She jerked with agony and twisted away, trying to protect herself. Three more men came over and pinned her down, making her immobile with her face pressed into the revolting basement ground.

 

Varric felt a sudden warmth for Hawke that he realized was pride. Despite her agony, she was trying hard not to break. And, despite the magebane, they felt they needed three men to restrain her.

 

But the whip kept coming down. On the same spot, and others, until her entire back was skinned and bloody. Hawke's shoulders shook with what Varric knew were sobs, but he knew it took all her strength to contain her suffering as much as she had. Blood pooled out around her. The whip kept coming down. 

 

Finally the Coterie man stopped. But the look in his eyes was anything but merciful.

 

"Little useless dwarf man, let's make a deal." His words dripped with condescension and hate. "You have two options. Option one is that we give your mage cunt a hundred more lashes before we fuck every hole she has."

 

A hundred lashes? Horror made Varric feel frozen. They had dealt her no more than fifty so far, and it had destroyed half her body. Another hundred would kill her.

 

"Or," he went on, "She only gets another fifty. And you're the one to deliver them."


	3. Chapter 3

Varric went numb. Surely there was a way to escape this. To take this opportunity to turn the tables and free them both.

 

"Don't try any of your rogue shit," threatened the guard. "You will whip her in chains, with your legs and one arm bound to the wall, with the only free limb being the one you use to whip her. If you make any other move, we will take the whip back from you--and deal her TWO hundred lashes, and then we'll feed her to our dogs while she's still alive to feel it."

 

Nausea swept over Varric at the hideous idea. 

 

"Don't be a wimp, Varric," came Hawke's pained voice from the floor. "Do you think I can't handle it or something? That's insulting."

 

Varric knew what Hawke meant. She would never beg--at least not yet--in front of their captors, but this was a plea in the most dignified form he'd ever seen. It was a plea for Varric to steel himself to deal the 50 lashes, to spare her the hell of the 100. And, more, it was a plea to avoid any wrong move that would lead to her suffering the painful end of her life.

 

"All right." Varric felt like these were the last words he would ever speak--like a part of his soul was dying. "Hand me the whip."

 

Varric fought to hold himself together as he brought the disgusting, gory whip down on Hawke's back. Her sobs were muffled, still, but she was unable to hold them in anymore. The sound of her crying made Varric feel like a part of his soul had died, or that perhaps the whole time he'd been dead already. 

 

He was sparing her 50 extra lashes. He was saving her, the only way he could. He forced himself to remember that as the lash went down again and again. He had done five so far--that left 45 left to go. He didn't dare go too soft, or else they would take the whip and kill her as threatened, but he tried to make the beating as thoughtful as he possibly could, in whatever sick dimension he was in where such a thing was possible. He hit fresh skin that hadn't been whipped yet, trying to avoid the rawest of the flay wounds.

 

10 more lashes down. 40 left to go. Her upper back was shredded to a deep, slimy crimson, and her mid-back was swollen and purple. He alternated hits on her lower back and legs and arms, where the bullwhip hadn't yet taken its toll.

 

"You're going easy," snarled the Coterie man. "Start over. Another 50."

 

Hawke made a keening sound as the whip came down again, and Varric wanted to cry for the first time in his life. 15 more lashes. Then 25. By the final 10, there was no part of Hawke's body that wasn't skinned to a deep red. By the end, she was screaming and babbling in an incoherent flow that made Varric certain he had landed in the depths of hell.

 

"I'm done." His voice was gravelly and raw. "Take your damn whip back and go fuck yourself with it."

 

"We'll be fucking better prey than that," said their lead captor with a snicker. "But that jape won't go unpunished." He jerked the whip out of Varric's hand, and shoved it in Hawke's tear-stained face. "Clean this with your mouth, whore."

 

The men restraining her moved, allowing her to sit up. Hawke struggled into a sitting position and drew her knees up to try to cover herself. She blinked, dazed, and stared with glassy eyes at the shrapnel-studded weapon.

 

"I said do it. Or else we'll add another 50."

 

Her shoulders slumped in defeat. The Coterie man forced the whip against her lips, and she dejectedly lapped at it with her tongue, grimacing in disgust. 

 

"Clean it for real. And eat the skin. It's the last food you'll have for a long fucking time. You have one minute, or else we'll repeat every lash of the fun we just now had."

 

Varric looked away. He couldn't watch the sight in front of him, but he couldn't escape the choking and gagging sounds that filled the air. At last, finally, that indignity was done, and the captor tossed the whip into the far corner.

 

"We're going to take turns nailing your mage," he said to Varric. "And you're going to hold her down in every position we demand. If you don't, we'll shove her staff inside her and impale her like a roast pig."

 

The leader licked his lips. Then he yanked Hawke's knees down and kicked her in the stomach, hard.

 

"We'll hurt you a lot more than this if your dwarf friend doesn't do as he's told," he snapped. He turned to Varric and summoned him, with a sadistic gleam of hate in his eyes. "Get over here."

 

The other men of the Coterie surrounded Hawke, and their eyes were no less malevolent. Varric walked towards her, slowly. He felt like his legs were made of concrete, and all he wanted to do was run, or succumb to unconsciousness if he couldn't. But he knew all too well that they were powerless now. That if he did anything less than obey, Hawke's torment would rise to levels beyond what he could imagine. The whip had been a mere warning.

 

They made Varric hold Hawke into position as they took her. Dozens of positions, for hours. He was forced to hold her legs apart, to pin her arms down, to stretch and distort her flesh in ways he had not thought possible.

 

Their taking of her lasted for what could have been an entire night. Hawke was still crying from the agony of what the whip had done to her, and this new segment of her hell just made it even worse. The men mocked her as she cried, and lashed at her with slaps to her face and yanks to her hair.

 

When they were finally done, she was barely conscious, and they left her in a heap on the floor. Body fluids covered her, mixing with the blood from her whipping. The blood had dripped down her back and pooled around her, so that every inch of her skin was red, as though she had been flayed from head to toe.

 

The Coterie men finally retreated, muttering about their plans and the jobs they had to do. When they left through the trapdoor, a hint of sunrise shone down into the cellar. But then the door slammed shut, leaving the prisoners in darkness again except for the flickering torch lights.

 

Varric sat down next to Hawke and pulled her into his lap. She made a low, ragged moaning noise from the back of her throat.

 

"Let me tell you a story," Varric said. It was the only way he knew to comfort Hawke in a way that she would actually appreciate. Hawke always reacted in anger to anything she perceived as pity or condescension, but his stories calmed her down.

 

He continued with the most humorous tale he knew, and Hawke relaxed slightly in his arms. But she still shook with agony, and she couldn't stop the tears that slipped from her eyes and left wet spots across Varric's knees. Varric used a rough hand to stroke her hair, and she nuzzled into his touch.

 

And then the trapdoor opened. 

 

"You're right, it was stupid to leave them alone," came a voice from above. "You think she'll be conscious for everything we plan to do to her later?"

 

Five mangy Coterie men stood at the top of the steps. They smirked and pointed at where Hawke's mangled body lay slumped in Varric's lap, as the merchant dwarf murmured stories to her and petted her hair.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sorry, Hawke. And sorry, Varric. My heart bleeds.

Cold laughter filled the air, chilling the sweat on the back of Varric's neck.

Their leader stepped forward, smirking with that awful grin. The stench of stale whiskey mixed with his rotten breath and the other smells of the basement--sweat, mold and blood. Torture.

"I think the stupid little shit is trying to comfort her," he jeered. "I guessed he missed his lessons on the way a real man comforts a woman."

"You missed the part where he's a dwarf and not a real man," said another. "But that does raise an interesting question. Could a dwarf's rod even fit inside a woman? I mean, think of how loose we made her."

The five of them crowed with laughter. Hawke painfully pulled herself up and edged away, eyes suddenly wide again as though she knew what was coming. Varric wanted to reach for her, to comfort her, but he knew it would be no use.

"Go round up the rest of the boys," said the leader to another man in the crowd. "They'd be pissed if we did this without them. They'd be pissed to miss this show--a dwarf nailing the Champion of Kirkwall!"

Horror formed a pit in Varric's chest, and slid down to his stomach. Their crude words had been suggestive all along, but now it was impossible to deny their intent.

The basement filled with more and more men of the Coterie, until it turned into a jam-packed audience. The thieves and blackmailers of Kirkwall stood milling about, sipping whiskey out of flasks and making sexual jokes. Some had even begun to touch themselves.

"You heard us, little dwarf man." The leader's voice was slurred with too much alcohol. "Your mage whore wants comfort? Then give it to her--with a blanket of cum to keep her warm."

Varric's soul twisted and churned, as though a stormy vacuum had taken over his insides. How could he do this? The whip had been awful enough, but he could not participate in the rape of anyone, no less an injured woman who was his best friend in the world.

"Do it. Or we'll kill her, and it won't be a merciful death."

Varric was rooted to the floor. He was freezing, and hollow inside, as though he had been transported to the darkest part of the universe and nothing around him was real.

"Don't want to?" The Coterie man's voice was mockingly sweet. "Fine then. Boys, get your knives out."

"I'll do it." Varric stepped forward before he could stop himself. "I'll do what you say, just don't kill her. Please."

##

Varric felt like his soul was splitting open down the middle. A part of his mind--no, a part of his spirit--fled, making him feel more hollow than he'd ever felt. He wondered whether he would ever feel whole again.

The emptiness made Varric feel like he wasn't inside his body at all. Which was good, given what his body was being forced to do.

The part of his soul that had been severed--the part of his soul that was capable of feeling--lingered somewhere far away, perhaps above the ceiling, perhaps beyond the walls. That distant part of him noted how cold Hawke's flesh was against his own. It noticed the way she shook and trembled, in a mixture of physical shock and agony. And it heard the sounds she made, muted and whimpering, the sounds of trying to stay strong and yet failing.

Varric's face was cold. The severed part of him observed, from far away, that the coldness came from his own tears.

He had always dreamed of having his chance to fuck the Champion. But not like this. Never like this.

##

When Varric was able to feel again, the men had retreated back upstairs, and Hawke lay slumped on the floor. She was unconscious now--when she was no longer awake to feel her suffering, the captors had grown bored of her. Dim torchlight flickered over the basement's many shadows, illuminating the many injuries across Hawke's body. He tried not to stare at her broken form, but her wounds had reached a point of severity. She had lost so much blood that Varric smelled its metallic scent each time he inhaled, and the rapes had worsened the deep whip wounds across her back.

She made a ragged moan in her sleep. The sound broke Varric's heart. He wanted so badly to drape his own jacket or tunic over her, but he dared not, knowing the punishments they would likely mete out at her.

His whole body tightened and a cold chill washed over him as the trapdoor opened again. This time, only the Coterie leader stood above.

"Get up here," he snarled. "Don't try running--they'll kill you if you make one step out of line. But don't wake her either. We have a deal to make with you."

Varric climbed to his feet. He was weak with hunger, exhaustion and dehydration, but could not let his captor see that. "Deal? What kind of deal?"

The man waited until Varric had reached the top of the steps. He blocked Varric from going any further, and Varric could see guards posted as promised, to close in on him if he tried to run. 

If he ran, and was killed, Hawke would be alone. He stopped.

"Your mage bitch's wounds are bad," said the Coterie gang leader. "Real bad. She needs healing."

"No shit." Varric wanted to spit at the man's feet. 

"We have a healing salve for you to give her, but there are certain....requirements for its use." The sadistic gleam worked its way back into the man's eyes again. "Certain terms you must agree to."

Varric wanted to scream. He wanted to slam this evil ratfucker to the floor and pound his face in bloody, but he knew he was too weak to even land a successful punch. Terms? Requirements? He had restrained his own best friend while they raped her. He had--he had hurt her himself, whipped her, and tormented her in newer ways he could not even stand to think of. And they were suggesting he might not agree to their sick demands in order to heal her injuries that would kill her?

"Name your terms."

"Well." The captor's grin worked its way up, revealing jagged yellow teeth. "There are certain things you have to say to her, while you're applying this potion. Certain things you have to tell her. My guards will be listening to make sure you obey your script. If you don't, we'll take away this potion and throw acid in her wounds and you'll get to watch as she melts away."


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Varric does not want to say the things he's saying. He's being blackmailed to, under threat of Hawke's death, and the captors are watching him.  
> But Hawke doesn't know that.  
> After their rescue, will the betrayal be resolved?

Hawke saw blurry shapes behind her eyelids. A small, lingering part of her was in one world--the world she knew, the world where she breathed in the smell of her own blood and felt a dirty stone floor against raw wounds. But the other world was one of floating, surreal darkness. She saw strange orbs float by, and sometimes voices spoke to her.

"Please." She tried in earnest to speak, but the word came out a mangled whimper. She wanted someone, anyone, to come to her in the darkness. To guide her to the realms that waited beyond.

"Marian." An answer came in a strong, clear voice. A voice that sounded eerily similar to her own. 

Hawke looked around, realizing that she could only see in the world of the shadows. She had left the other world behind. She felt the presence of another being behind her, and turned. Turned to see Bethany.

"Marian, why did you come here?" Bethany still wore her armor from the day they fled Lothering, and her body was still crushed and gory from the ogre. "Why do you think we would WANT you here? Everything was your fault."

Hawke felt a sinking in the core of her being, until her entire soul had gone cold. She was already lost to the old world--a world where she was alone, where she had died a broken death in a basement of her enemies. She knew she was alone there. But here, in the new place that waited beyond, she was doomed to be blamed and unwanted?

She tried to reach for her sister, but her limbs would not work. She tried to speak, but her lips formed no sound.

"Go away, Marian." Bethany turned away from her, and her form faded back into the shadows. "Goodbye."

Hawke staggered through a darkness that got blacker and blacker. She tried, and tried, and tried to scream.

Until the scream finally ripped from her throat.

##

Varric's rough hand grabbed her shoulder, as another one clamped over her mouth. "Shut up," he hissed. "Do you want them to hear you making a racket? Do you want them to come down and hurt BOTH of us again, now that they know you're awake?"

Hawke blinked. Slowly, she realized that she was back in the world of stone basements and blood. That the world of her dead sister was no longer real. "I'm sorry."

A strange expression flashed across Varric's face, and then he glanced towards the stairs and the trapdoor. When he looked back, his face held anger. No, more than anger. It held hate.

"You damn well should be sorry," Varric snapped. "We're here because of you. Everything I went through was because of you. This is YOUR fault. Now hold still and shut up while I heal you, because it's not my job to coddle you."

Hawke stared blankly at him, and then at the piles of gauze and healing creams on the ground. Varric hadn't meant what he said. Had he? He just snapped in a moment of frustration. And really, who could blame him?

"Lie down on your stomach so I can heal your back." Varric's words were the same words a gentle healer might say, but his tone was harsh and unsympathetic. He hated their predicament--of course--but Hawke needed reassurance that he didn't actually hate HER.

She obeyed and laid down, and reached out slowly to hold hands with Varric. He could just squeeze her hand or run a hand through her hair, like before, and she would feel safe in their shared bond.

But Varric didn't touch her. He glanced at the trapdoor again, and that fleeting haunting expression crossed his face, and then he slapped her hands away. "Don't touch me again. Just shut up so I can be done healing you."

Hawke pulled her hand back as if it had been burned. She folded her arms underneath her face and rested her head, hoping that Varric couldn't see the silent tears that flowed from her eyes. His blame--his rejection--had hurt even more than the sting of the potions and the needle.

And those hurt too. The debridement and disinfection of each wound felt like each of her lashes were being opened all over again. 

With each wound that he healed, Varric's hands grew less gentle and more impatient. "You know, this situation IS your fault, and so is every other one we've gotten into."

Hawke didn't respond.

"I think," the archer went on, "After we get out of this--and that's assuming we don't die here--our friendship should come to an end."

Hawke felt like he had plunged a knife into her chest and yanked her heart out, still beating and dripping with blood. "You don't mean that, Varric. I understand. We'll get out of this, we'll get our rest, we'll go home and drink our ale and...."

He jammed the cleaning instrument into her next wound, harder than he needed to, and Hawke screamed.

"No, we won't. Shut up, Hawke--every word you speak is killing me." Varric's own voice choked up, for just a second, and he glanced up the stairs and toward the trapdoor. Hawke wanted to fly to that trapdoor and rip it off its hinges. Why was it so important right now? Why couldn't Varric just look at her face, just forgive her, just tell her he was sorry and that things would be all right?

"And, speaking of you and killing--Maker, are you dangerous to be around." Varric shook his head. A tear rolled down his own face, and it made Hawke want to scream. If his words were causing him pain, why did he have to say them? Why couldn't he just soothe her in their precious moment of solitude, and make her feel like there was one person in the world who didn't want to make her suffer?

"First," Varric went on, "Your father died. Because of you--I can read that much between the lines. Then your sister dies, and then your brother. Both because YOU failed to protect them in time. And we both know what happened to your mother."

Varric's voice shook more and more with each word. Hawke wanted to beg him to stop. She might even have done so---hell, her pride was gone already--but her voice didn't work anymore. Nothing about her worked anymore.  
In that moment, Hawke realized she truly wanted to die.

"So you framed a fake persona as the 'Champion of Kirkwall,'" Varric went on. "Acting like you could save people. Like you could be strong. But it's a lie. Nobody believes you can save anyone, or that you're truly useful for anything." Varric applied more painful salve to her wounds. "None of the gang believes it. I sure as hell don't believe it. And the people of Kirkwall don't believe it, either. They just think you're a sad, pathetic woman who hides behind a mask of fake greatness in order to hide from how small she truly is."

Hawke had never felt so low before. She wondered, in a fleeting moment of hysteria, whether she had become an actual part of the floor. She started to laugh, suddenly, in a delirium that felt like a nightmare, and the laughter mixed with her sobs.

"Just kill me," she managed to get out. "If I'm so fucking useless, let me die." In this moment, it was all she really wanted. At least she would be prepared when the Maker himself rejected her.

"No," said Varric. "You don't deserve death." He finished bandaging the last of her wounds, and then--after one last glance to the trapdoor--he leaned against the wall, consumed by his own racking sobs.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was having a ton of writer's block for how to handle the logistics of their rescue, so my friend and consultant NotYetWritten kindly wrote this chapter for me.   
> I love the job she did - the angst levels hurt my soul. I also recommend checking out her other work if you're looking for more to read.

“Get up,” the Coterie leader snarled, and Varric realized they had slept.

“She needs food,” he said drowsily, blinking the sleep out of his eyes.

“Oh, she’s been fed plenty,” the man chuckled. “We’re bringing her back to you soon enough. But first, I have a proposition for you. We found the shipment. Seems your little mage bitch wasn’t the thief after all, so we’re going to let you go.”

Varric was already halfway down planning their funerals when the rest of the man’s words hit him. “But first we want one last show.”

Fury fell from his lips, unbridled after the shit they’d made him do. “What more could you bastards want from her? More of the same crude beating, more rape? Would you like me to hold her while you piss on her like a dog marking its territory perhaps?”

“Oh, I’m sure you’ll come up with something,” the man said with a wink. “Because if you don’t...Well. I’m sure I don’t have to tell you what’s at stake here. Your girlfriend’s almost had enough. We offered to stop and switch to you for a bit. She wholeheartedly agreed.”

Hawke was thrown in unceremoniously, signs of new damage and still bleeding from old. Her skin was was ashy where it wasn’t bloodied; her face was covered in filth. Who knew how long these animals had tormented her while she slept.

And now it was his turn again.

He’d used all their false words, preyed on insecurities but now she looked defeated. Hardened. Whatever they wanted him to do...Your girlfriend’s almost had enough. Did they want him to break her? More than he had with words, more than they had with their efforts.

He moved on her, feigning enough anger to startle her back awake as he lifted her by the hair that he just wanted to stroke reassuringly. “What did you tell them?” he snarled.

She gazed up at him, face blank. “What?” she asked limply. There was pain visible in her eyes. She was holding it back. Despite not having eaten. Despite not having slept. Despite what he had said to her and done to her. Beneath the blank mask, she was utterly terrified.

“You heard me. You told them something. They came down here, Hawke.” The words were steel on his tongue.

The blank expression faltered and her eyes flicked down his body.

“You’ve got a hole made for this shit. Loose, too, from what I hear. Poor Hawke, overwhelmed by discomfort. For me it was agony, Hawke. I hired you to protect me, but thanks to you they took Bianca and did something I’ve avoided in the slums of Kirkwall all by myself for all these years.”

He let her fall. Her head hit the floor more solidly than he intended, but he followed through. Grabbed her thigh and twisted with one solid hand as the other undid his breeches with the other.  
“How about I return the favor?” Maker forgive me. They hadn’t even asked him to do this.

“Stop,” she finally whispered. “I’m sorry. I-”

“I don’t want to hear it,” he said, and he pushed what remained of his morning wood in without prep, without lubricant, without remorse. She bucked, not unexpectedly. Her captors had mostly left her alone, but if they hadn’t it was certainly damaged now. The friction was almost too much for him to even stay hard. “That’s what it felt like, Hawke. I want you to feel this. Go ahead and cry, Hawke. Cry like you actually regret something.” Please, Andraste, let her cry. It was the only way he knew to show the Coterie that he’d actually accomplished something.

She made a pained noise, but no tears, so he pushed harder and fervently hoped he would not cause lasting damage.

“Please,” she pleaded weakly. “I’m sorry. I was so tired, and …”

Her voice faded and her tensed muscles relaxed against him. Alarmed, Varric grabbed one of her limp arms to make sure her heart was still beating.

Alive. Barely.

Who the fuck was he kidding. They would never be allowed to go. There was no way they could tell if Hawke had cried or broken or if he’d had anything to do with it. It wasn’t likely that they were watching through a hole in the wall, so this was all just a stupid ploy to get him to--

“Get away from her!” roared the loud and familiar voice of Blondie. No, the spirit inside him. Varric hadn’t heard the trapdoor open. He released Hawke finally and pulled backward and away.

“Help her,” he said, trembling from sudden euphoria. “She’s-” The plea was cut off by a bolt of lightning. Not lethal for a dwarf, but painful enough to knock him to the ground. The mage advanced across the room as choir-boy dropped in just behind him. Merrill was at his heels.

“How long have you been planning this?” the spirit demanded, swinging the staff down towards Varric’s head.

The rogue avoided it, trying to catch his breath enough to explain-

“HOW LONG HAVE YOU DECEIVED US?”

“Justice,” Sebastian said from where he crouched next to Hawke - not a moment too soon. Varric scrambled backwards. “Leave him be until we know the full story. She needs healing.”

“You didn’t,” Merrill said, eyes wide as she stared at Varric. “No, you protect us. Don’t you? Secretly? Doesn’t he?” She flinched as her eyes passed over Hawke. “Oh, Hawke…”

And then Justice’s staff finally connected with Varric’s skull and Varric Tethras, merchant prince of Kirkwall, blacked out.


	7. Chapter 7

Blackness faded in and out of the room. Blackness, and unfamiliar shapes. Hawke struggled to keep her eyes open. It hurt. Everything hurt. She felt like she was halfway between this realm and the next, and she couldn't focus on anything besides curling into as tight of a ball as possible.

Varric hated her. Why? What had she done? Then she remembered the deaths of her mother and father, and Bethany’s rejection from the Void. Perhaps she deserved to be hated after all. 

"By the dread wolf, you poor thing. What did they do to you?" Merrill sat down next to Hawke, quickly peeled her overcoat off, and wrapped it around Hawke's shoulders like a blanket.

Hawke grabbed the coat like a lifeline and buried herself into it. She remembered suddenly that she was naked, filthy, bloodied, and had suffered violation from more than twenty men. How much did her friends know about her ordeal? Shame seeped into her like the blood slowly staining Merrill’s coat. Hawke burrowed deeper into the coat, blood and all.

How warm it was. Warmth. She had been so desperate for warmth, so starved for comfort, and now that it was hers she would never let go. Tears welled up in her eyes, and she knew vaguely she wanted to stop them, but she couldn't and so they coursed down her face like fresh rain.

Suddenly, vaguely, she realized she was ruining her friend’s coat. More shame rose up within her. Merrill would be disgusted, and all her friends would hate her and turn on her the way Varric had.

“So much blood.” She tried to say more, but her throat hurt and her tongue was so parched. 

"I'm sorry, Hawke." Merrill inched in closer and pulled Hawke into a hug. "We should have come sooner."

Hawke leaned up and searched Merrill’s face, searching for the anger and revulsion. So far, there was none. Perhaps Merrill didn’t yet understand.

“Blood,” Hawke tried again. “Please forgive me.”

“Oh, honey.” Merrill’s eyes widened with compassion and pain. “You have done nothing wrong.” She pulled Hawke back down into her lap, and threaded her fingers through Hawke’s tangled, matted hair.

Hawke's mind swam with a thousand words and with none. She leaned into her friend's embrace, and nuzzled her face into Merrill's knees so that no one would see how she sobbed.

“She must be parched,” said Merrill. “And starving. Where’s the water flask?”

And then Sebastian was at her side, averting his eyes from her even though she was wrapped in the blanket, holding a canteen of water to her lips. Excitement flooded through her like jolts of electricity. She lunged toward it but missed, and then Merrill wrapped a steady arm around both shoulders while Sebastian gently helped her drink. She downed the flask in a few seconds and wanted to cry again when it was gone. 

"Holy fucking Maker. Look at her back." Anders' voice was full of rage, but at least Justice had been wrestled away for the time being. He ran a gentle hand across Hawke's upper back where the blanket had slipped loose. "They shredded her. She needs healing immediately."

"There's no clean place to put her here," said Sebastian, surveying the filthy room. Its floor was stained with Hawke's blood, the Coterie men's various bodily fluids, and stale gore and shit from past prisoners. "Her wounds will just get infected--how long will it take to get her back to the clinic?"

"Not far. But there's no way she's walking." Anders carefully scooped Hawke into his arms, and cradled her against his chest. Hawke closed her eyes, savoring the secure warmth of his arms, the safety and relief of being with friends who loved her. "It's okay, sweetheart. We'll take care of you."

Anders placed a gentle kiss on her forehead, and she let the welcome embrace of sleep tug her into oblivion.

Merrill followed Anders closely at his heels, keeping a watchful eye on Hawke. She took one last glance behind her to see Sebastian hauling Varric’s unconscious body out of the room. Then she quickly followed Anders back to the clinic. Hawke needed healing soon--very soon--in order to fully recover, but Anders had used most of his mana killing the Coterie. He would have to resort to human healing methods, and Hawke would be facing another long night of pain.


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this is so short. More soon.

Anders cradled Hawke tightly in both arms as Merrill unlocked the clinic door. Sebastian had split ways earlier to go hunt down Varric, who had gotten away when the others weren't looking.

Hawke whimpered and stirred in Anders' arms. He gently stroked her sweat-drenched hair and laid her down on the table. Merrill followed, collecting items that she knew Anders would need.

"She has metal and parts of the whip inside of her wounds," Anders said grimly. "It's gotten infected. Her fever is dangerous--feel how hot her forehead is."

Merrill touched Hawke's face. Anders was right--she was burning up. Hawke writhed beneath her blankets and made a low noise of pure helplessness and misery. 

"We have to dig through her wounds and get the junk out," said Anders. "It will be horrible, but she'll die if we don't." He began to peel the blankets away. They were already stained with pus and blood. 

Merrill fought back a gag at the swollen lashes that cut into Hawke from head to toe. They wept with clear and yellow fluid, and some were so deep that Merrill could see the insides of the muscle they had cut through. Hawke's shivering turned into violent shakes, and she began to make a repetitive, keening whimper.

Merrill tried to imagine how Hawke might feel, and realized she couldn't. A sick heavy feeling crept into her own chest. "We have to sedate her."

"Can't." Anders shook his head sadly. "The only brew I have can't mix with magebane, or it will turn toxic and eat her flesh. And there's magebane all over these cuts. They must have dipped the whip in it."

From the bed, Hawke began to weep. Merrill rushed to her side and put an arm on her shoulder, but Hawke didn't seem to register it. Her eyes looked blank and lost. Perhaps she thought she was still in the dungeon.

"Hawke, sweetheart, you're safe here." Merrill tried to keep her voice calm and comforting. "You're not in that place anymore. They're all dead. It's all over now."

Hawke's face stayed blank. "Please stop," she managed. "I didn't steal it, please, it's been days, you've already killed me. Just let me die."

Anders started his work on the first wound of many. Hawke thrashed suddenly, bucking up from the table like a panicked horse about to throw its rider. Merrill let a bolt of force magic ebb from her own hands as she moved to hold Hawke down. She tried, but failed, to hide her own tears as Hawke began to scream.


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I needed to give her a little break and put some aftercare in here.

Anders stood at the sink and washed Hawke’s blood from his hands. Merrill leaned on the counter next to him and watched as the red rivers swirled down the drain.

“I feel awful.” Anders glanced at the closed door of the tiny room where they’d left Hawke to sleep. “As soon as my mana is back, I’ll have to do at least two more rounds of this.”

“Maybe we can give her some sedatives by then,” said Merrill. She led Anders to lie down on his cot, and spread a blanket over him. “Get some rest, you deserve it.” 

Once Anders was asleep, Merrill walked back to the door of the treatment room. She opened the door slowly, carefully, to check on her friend without hounding her sleep. The guards had done enough of that.

But Hawke wasn’t on the bed. She was now underneath it, in the farthest corner as close to the wall as she could get. All the blankets from the bed were wrapped around her like a cocoon, and she was huddled down with her knees drawn up and her arms wrapped around herself. Her eyes were wide, and she shivered violently.

“It’s all right, Hawke.” Merrill kept her voice calm and soothing as she carefully sat down next to the bed. She gave enough space that Hawke wouldn’t feel threatened, but positioned herself so she was sitting at Hawke’s level. “You’re in Anders’ clinic now. You’re safe.”

“Varric was safe.” Hawke’s voice was flat and small. “He was supposed to be.” A long pause followed. “Why?”

“I don’t know.” Merrill looked away from Hawke’s eyes and down at the ground. “I’m so sorry.”

Hawke sniffled. New tears sprung from her eyes, and her shoulders slumped in frustration. “Don’t say that. Don’t be sorry for me.” Her lip quivered, and new sobs mixed with a forced burst of laughter. “It’s not exactly fucking possible to request that, now, is it? But you know how much I hate pity.”

“I never for one second thought you were weak or pathetic, Hawke. You’re the strongest person in this city, and everyone knows it.” Merrill instinctively leaned forward to hug her friend, but forgot about the bed frame between them. She slammed into the metal and cursed her stupidity.

Hawke forced a laugh and crawled out from under the bed. She arranged herself into the same protective sitting position, and still trembled, but not quite as violently as she was before. Slowly, she leaned in closer to Merrill, just slightly--the gesture was a request to be held, but in a manner subtle enough to maintain her pride.

Merrill wrapped both arms around Hawke and allowed her friend to burrow her face into the crook between Merrill’s arm and neck. She let her cry and didn’t say a word about it. Her fingers threaded gently through Hawke’s matted hair, and she used the other hand to gently pet her back.

“Can I get cleaned up?” Hawke finally asked. “And some food? And, damn it, probably some really strong drinks too?”

“Of course you can,” said Merrill instantly. “We’ll be getting you knocked out later--may as well get started early.”

She helped Hawke stand up and led her over to the bathtub in the corner, making sure to keep the blankets securely in place until Hawke moved them herself and started the water. Merrill kept her eyes focused in the other direction as Hawke cleaned herself. It wasn’t like Hawke had ever cared, but Merrill wanted to give her as much privacy as possible, especially now that her skin was covered in whip lashes and other things that Merrill found it best to not mention.

“Could you wash my hair for me?”

Merrill turned back toward the tub. Hawke’s skin was rubbed raw, and the bathwater was now the color of dried blood. She sat in the same protective position to cover herself with her knees and arms.

“I can do it myself, but it just--I don’t know, it just feels good. Being touched by another human being in a way that isn’t--that isn’t--” Hawke bit her lip and thrust the shampoo into Merrill’s hands.

“Of course.” Merrill lathered up Hawke’s hair and worked the soaps and oils deep into her scalp. She wished she knew what to say, or how to say it, or how to make anything better. Hawke’s eyes watered, and it occurred to Merrill that the soapy water against her wounds must be painful. But Hawke didn’t mention it, so neither did she.

“I don’t understand why Varric hates me so much. Or how he could possibly have that in him.” Hawke used one hand to stroke her other arm, like she was trying to comfort herself. “I loved him, Merrill. I’ve never said that out loud before, but I was stupid enough to love him.” She sniffled back another round of tears. “Fuck. Maker, fuck all of this and stop me from crying. Talk about something else with me, please, something like food and drinking and bad sex jokes and--”

“Think of all the food and ale at your mansion,” said Merrill. “Waiting for you to get home and stuff your face like a Mabari the way you always do after our quests.”

“Okay.” Hawke sat up a little straighter in the tub. She had started to shiver again, so Merrill leaned over and added more hot water. “Um, I’ve got some high-end cheese from the marketplace. I was going to eat it with that wine from Tevinter, but it’s probably all moldy now.”

“Probably,” agreed Merrill, grateful to be talking about food rather than Varric’s betrayal. “But you can still have the wine. And some ale.”

“Do I have any of that spiced rum left?” Hawke asked. “Or did Izzy drink it all?”

“Last I saw, there was about half left in the bottle,” said Merrill. “But that’s not much, you know. Better pick up an extra bottle anyway.”

“I agree.” Hawke reached for her heap of blankets on the floor. “Will you help me get out of here?”

Merrill found a loose-fitting pajama outfit and helped Hawke get dried and dressed. Neither said a word about the cuts that were turning to scars, or the fact that more rounds of painful healing would be needed. Instead, Merrill sat Hawke down at the tiny kitchen table and began fixing food.


End file.
